


The Only Moment we were Alone

by Vagabond



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, request, request fulfillment, set after Fusco gets shot in the bum, something about Finch buying things for people makes me smile, the cushion makes a guest appearance, they kiss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-16 00:18:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1324672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective Lionel Fusco likes to ignore the doctor's orders and work even though he was recently shot in the line of duty. Finch reminds him to take care of himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Only Moment we were Alone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [k2merc (tumblr)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=k2merc+%28tumblr%29), [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Armor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/499372) by [livenudebigfoot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/livenudebigfoot/pseuds/livenudebigfoot). 



> This was requested by k2merc on tumblr. She asked for Fusco/Finch hurt/comfort turns passionate. This is what came out of it. Let me tell you, I was not expecting to write 5 pages. 
> 
> This work is heavily inspired by the character dynamics found in Armor by livenudebigfoot. I was not sold on Fusco/Finch until I read Armor and so thoroughly enjoyed the characterization that I would be remiss not to suggest you go read it. 
> 
> Title comes from a song by Explosions in the Sky [The Only Moment we were Alone](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kKyrULAfvq8). 
> 
> By the way, if anyone ever has a request for a story, feel free to hit me up on [TUMBLR](http://rdlenix.tumblr.com/). Shoot me an ask and I will either post it there, or if it turns out as long as this one, post it here!
> 
> Enjoy.

He’d taken a bullet in the ass for a kid and felt pretty good about himself. 

Yeah, people at the precinct had been giving him shit for it but underneath the jabs and teases there was a newfound respect that Lionel hadn’t enjoyed for years. For once he felt like one of the good guys. Maybe if he kept working with Finch and Wonderboy he could feel like a halfway decent person again. 

The doctors had prescribed bed rest and pain killers, but he was taking neither. His captain had tried to force him to go home but he insisted on staying and finishing some paperwork. He wanted to ride out the high of feeling good about himself before it petered out and he reverted back to his insecure sense of self. Carter was giving him looks but he ignored those too until the ache in his behind was becoming too great. He’d purposely been setting his weight to the other side but contact was still contact and the pain was beginning to distract him. 

“Fusco, go home.” Carter said from her desk as she tilted her head and looked concerned. 

“Yeah.” Lionel sighed heavily and glanced down at the unfinished form on his desk, weighing his options. The ache from his wound was getting to the point where he should probably take his partner’s advice. “Yeah, yeah alright.” He glanced up and saw a look of relief cross Carter’s face and knew his decision wasn’t a terrible one. 

First he tidied up his desk, drawing out the sensation of being productive for as long as he could, before he finally stood and grabbed his jacket. 

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, Carter.” He offered her a smile. 

“If you know what is good for you then I won’t and you’ll take the day off tomorrow like you should.” Carter shot back and Lionel playfully rolled his eyes and waved as he left the precinct. 

One uncomfortable taxi ride left him off at home and he limped up to his apartment and let himself in. He shut and locked the door behind him, shrugged off his coat, and stared into the dark living room. His son was with his ex, as he often was these days. In his mind he replayed the last conversation they’d had. 

_“Lionel, you got shot. You should be taking care of yourself, not worrying about Lee. He isn’t going to hold it against you.” She’d insisted and he could hear her frowning over the phone. “Of course you can see him and take him to lunch but I think it is best he stays with me while you’re healing.”_

_“Look, I don’t see the big deal. I’m fine. I’ve got a bandage on my ass and I’m going to be just fine.” He shot back, scowling to himself. Lionel had known where the conversation was going and he didn’t like it._

_“You need to learn to take care of yourself, you know. I keep telling you that but you don’t listen. Look, I get it, you’ve got some crap you’ve had to go through and deal with but you were shot. You were shot in the line of duty and you’ve been going to work and I bet you haven’t been doing anything the doctor told you because you’re stubborn. You’re stubborn and for some reason you don’t like yourself. Lee doesn’t need to be exposed to that. As far as he knows you’re taking care of yourself and he’ll be over once you’re healed. Whether you do that or not is your prerogative, Lionel, but that is my final say.” By the time she finished ranting she sounded sad and Lionel had felt drained._

Lionel realized he was still standing in the entryway and scowled to himself. Whatever buzz he’d had was slowly slipping away and he could feel the familiar black hole of self doubt beginning to swallow him. He turned on the light in the kitchen, hoping it would banish some of his dark thoughts. When the room was illuminated he froze and stared at the table. 

Next to his bottle of painkillers was a note that read, it is advisable that you take these as scheduled, just in case you’d forgotten the doctor’s instructions. The note didn’t bother him nearly as much as the fact his medication had managed to transport itself from the bathroom to the kitchen table. Beside the note and bottle was a bag of Chinese take-out that smelled a lot like orange chicken, chow mien, and a number of other dishes which were on his mental lists of favorites. 

The phone rang in his pocket and he knew it wasn’t a coincidence. 

“Don’t you have something better to do other than breaking and entering? Or did you have Wonderboy do that for you?” He asked as he answered the phone, tucking it between his ear and shoulder as he opened up the take out bag and began to paw through it. 

“Detective, it is lovely to hear from you. I assure you Mr. Reese was off dealing with another matter and I decided to stop by since he had no need of me. Is the food to your liking? I vaguely recall you ordering the dishes at that particular restaurant once when you and Mr. Reese were on a stakeout.” Finch sounded perfectly calm and collected as always and it irritated Lionel, but he also felt an unfamiliar swell of affection. 

“Anyone ever tell you you’re memory is kind of scary?” He located the orange chicken and popped open the container. Lionel grabbed a fork, not in the mood to fuss with chop sticks, and greedily dug into the food. 

“Perhaps. Though it seems my memory has served me well considering I can hear you chewing.” Finch pointed out and Lionel couldn’t decide if the other man sounded annoyed or amused. In the end it didn’t really matter because he realized he hadn’t eaten lunch and the chicken was the first thing he’d had since coffee and a donut at six in the morning. 

“What else have you eaten today, Detective?” Finch inquired and Lionel suddenly felt like a kid who had been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to do. Then again, he was a grown man and Finch wasn’t his mother, so he really had no reason to feel guilty. 

“I had breakfast.” Lionel replied vaguely after swallowing a mouthful of food. He set the container down on the table and made his way over to the cabinet for a glass to fill with water. After he had filled it up and taken a drink he realized that Finch had been strangely silent. 

“You still there, Finch?” He asked and leaned back into the counter, making sure to avoid putting pressure on his wound. 

“Mm. I am indeed. I am finishing up a couple of things and then I will make my way over to your apartment.” Finch answered casually and Lionel’s stomach felt like it had knots in it. 

“What? Why? Look, you’ve done enough for me today I don’t think you need to come over.” Lionel swallowed hard and began looking around the kitchen, trying hard not to wonder if his house was even clean enough to have a visitor. What if Finch took one look at the place and found it to be too dirty, too gross, too unorganized? Then again, the man had been there earlier in the day and it hadn’t kept him from leaving a reminder and food. 

“If you are not going to appropriately take care of yourself without supervision, detective, then I suppose someone will need to supervise you. The matter has already been decided. I’m heading over now. I will see you shortly.” After Finch was done speaking the phone clicked and Lionel knew he’d hung up. 

He filled his water glass again and moved over to the table. When he pulled out the chair he scowled. A plain white cushion that certainly wasn’t something he’d purchased rested on the chair without explanation. Of course he had an idea as to where it had originated, but he wasn’t sure how he felt about sitting on a cushion. He glanced around the apartment, wondering for a moment if he was on an episode of some cruel reality show, before he sat down gingerly. 

Somehow the cushion managed to distribute his weight so perfectly that the pressure put on his wound was reduced dramatically. He could sit without feeling like something or someone was poking the gunshot wound with a stick. Lionel sighed and before he grabbed his food he picked up the pill bottle and swallowed a vicodin. Then he tucked into the food with gusto. 

When someone knocked on the door he reluctantly rose and went to unlock and open it. The open door revealed Harold Finch, looking as put together as he always was. Lionel felt woefully underdressed since he’d stripped off his jacket, blazer, and tie and had been eating in his trousers, an undershirt, and an unbuttoned dress shirt. Yet when he glanced at Finch the other man didn’t seem particularly scornful of his wardrobe. 

“Surprised you didn’t change your mind.” Lionel said in way of a greeting and stepped out of the way to let Finch in. He headed back to the table, figuring Finch could close and lock the door himself. 

“Why would I have done that, Detective?” He asked slowly, closing and locking the door as Lionel had suspected before joining him in the kitchen. 

Lionel watched as Finch’s eyes swept the room and then landed on his chair, the one with the cushion, which the detective was currently occupying. He swore he saw a faint smile tug at the corners of the other man’s lips and something akin to affection flashed in his eyes. 

“How is the cushion?” Finch inquired as he removed his coat and disappeared to hang it in the other room before he returned to the kitchen. “I had hoped it would help ease the pressure on your injury and make sitting more tolerable. I considered acquiring one for your desk at the precinct as well but thought better of it.” If Lionel didn’t know any better, he would have said Finch was preening over the work he’d done for him. 

“I’m glad you didn’t. Don’t think I’d hear the end of that one. It is hard enough getting shot in the ass,” he paused and winced internally, “butt,” he corrected because he felt like crass language in front of Finch in his kitchen was inappropriate, “sitting on a cushion at work would probably earn me an unpleasant nickname.” 

“Yes. Well then, I am glad I rethought the gift. I hope you are able to get some use out of it in your home, at least.” Finch pulled out one of the chairs at the table and sat down, his back straight as always as his eyes fell on Lionel. 

“So,” Lionel was uneasy but the question had been bothering him, “why did you do all this for me, if you don’t mind me asking? It just seemed a bit out of the blue…” he trailed off, uncertain as to where he’d been going with the question. 

“Do you think yourself unworthy of it, Detective?” Finch challenged, eyebrows raised at the question. “You were harmed assisting me and Mr. Reese with a number. It seems like the least I could do to make sure you’re seeing to your own recovery.” 

There was something in the question that made Lionel feel deeply uncomfortable and he glanced down at the table and tapped his fingers against the surface nervously. Finch’s words reminded him of the conversation he’d had with his ex wife and he was beginning to wonder if his low sense of self worth was starting to bleed through. His mask was failing him. Or perhaps his mask had always failed him; he’d just never had anyone in his life care enough to point it out. 

“Have you taken any time off, Detective?” Lionel wanted to ignore the question but the look on Finch’s face when he glanced up told him it would be unacceptable. 

“No. Not outside of my brief hospital stay.” He answered and the guilty feeling returned. 

“Perhaps you should take tomorrow off, then.” Finch pointed out matter-of-factly and then stood to put the leftover Chinese food away in the fridge. 

“I took a vicodin.” The words rushed out of Lionel’s mouth before he even realized what he was saying and he suddenly felt stupid. However, the look Finch gave him when he finished putting the boxes in the fridge made him flush slightly. 

“I am extremely pleased to hear that.” Finch approached and laid a tentative hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. “It helps, you know. Taking the pills, sitting on a cushion, sleeping in and resting. It is not particularly invigorating but it helps.” His hand slipped away and Lionel instantly missed the touch. 

“I feel useless on bed rest.” Lionel countered and frowned, not failing to notice that while Finch’s hand had left his shoulder the other man was standing precariously close to him. “I’m not good to anyone shut up in this god forsaken apartment all day.” 

“I understand, Lionel,” Finch paused with the name and seemed almost curious about how it sounded coming from his own mouth, “I experienced a very similar sensation once, but I learned very quickly that refusing to let myself heal kept me useless for longer than I desired.” 

The other man’s confession sparked something in the detective and he reached over hesitantly and brushed his fingers shyly along the line of Finch’s wrist. He swallowed and waited for a reaction, and when none came he began to pull back his hand only to have it grasped tightly. Even though he was much heavier than Finch, the other man tugged and he felt compelled to stand. Uncertain as to where this was going, Lionel felt uneasy and nervous, even as Finch turned and leaned in to press their lips together in a firm kiss. 

It was almost chaste, closed mouth and shy on his part, but soon Finch was pressing into it more and Lionel opened his mouth when he felt the other man’s tongue run over his lower lip. He accidentally groaned, unable to contain his reaction to the sensation of warmth that spread through him. A lot of thoughts jumped to mind but each was silenced as he focused on kissing Finch. 

Then Finch pulled away and Lionel was left standing there, breathless, his brain feeling fuzzy as the vicodin finally began to kick in. 

“You may think, Detective, that you are alone. That you are, perhaps, worthless or without merit. Allow me to tell you this: you aren’t. You have changed and will continue to change and if there is one thing I have learned it is that there is usually a good person inside every human being on this planet, regardless of their past actions. You are a good person and I hope the people in your life will continue to take care of you as you take care of them.” Finch stared at a spot just over Lionel’s shoulder as he spoke before he finally made eye contact and the detective was at a loss for words. 

“I’ll…take care of myself.” Lionel finally murmured, feeling tired, warm, and confused. 

“Go to sleep, Lionel,” Finch insisted gently, “let the vicodin take effect and sleep. Heal. Take tomorrow off. Your Captain has already received an e-mail telling him you will not be there, so you may as well spare yourself a confusing explanation and accept the time off.” 

“Thanks, Finch,” he paused, “Harold. Thanks, Harold.” 

“Think nothing of it, Detective. Rest well.” Finch gathered up his coat and let himself out. 

Lionel decided to take another vicodin and stripped on the way to his room, shutting off the lights as he went so he could fall into bed and sleep. 

He would think about what the hell had happened some other time.


End file.
